Heart on a Shelf
by behindtintedglass
Summary: After the night at the pool, Sherlock struggles between his need for John and his desire to keep John safe. And when Sherlock decides to protect John's heart from his own, John convinces him that their hearts are safer together than they are apart.


**A/N**: Inspired by a _Sherlock_ Pool Scene photoset (from The Great Game) by BenedictCumberbatchsEyebrows, as well as the ensuing commentary in Tumblr. The title references a lyric from Stevie Wonder's "You've Got It Bad Girl."

Co-written with the beautiful and brilliant Sarah (**AfroGeekGoddess**), and cross-posted from her account at AO3 (archiveofourown(dot)org(slash)works(slash)260736). You can also visit her site here at FFN (www(dot)fanfiction(dot)net(slash)~afrogeekgoddess). She will always have my infinite gratitude and love.

* * *

><p><strong><span>HEART ON A SHELF<span>**

_a Sherlock (BBC) Fanfiction_

SH written by AfroGeekGoddess

JW written by BehindTintedGlass

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

**SH**:

I did this. I did this to us. I did this to you. I didn't panic then. I couldn't panic then. But I'd never felt this terror before. I'd never felt this terror before, even for my own life. I promised you I would get you out of there, even if I had to give up my own life. I couldn't panic then. If Jim had hurt you, if he hurts you again, I don't care, I will kill him without a second thought.

And I'm sorry. I'm sorry I did this to us. To you. I'm sorry it's you, because you are good and kind and you are my friend when no one else is and if I lose you, life won't be worth living.

.

.

**JW**:

Don't you dare, Sherlock Holmes. Don't you dare be sorry for something I freely, _willingly _chose. No, I didn't choose to be abducted and abused and _used _by Moriarty as his fucking tool _to get to you. _And I'm ashamed, Sherlock...ashamed that I'm your weakness, that I'm the one who _lets you down_, who makes you _stop _when you need to be racing ahead with that brilliant, beautiful brain of yours. I'm ashamed of how, despite how hard I try, I will never be worthy of you, will never be good enough for you, will never be the friend that you deserve_._ Because I am ordinary. _Because I am human, and you are divine. _

And that is why I will always, _always _choose to be with you _no matter what_, because being divine means you are not like the rest of us, and you're alone in your brilliance, and even if it's the last thing I do _I will make sure you will never be alone ever again. _So don't you _dare _be sorry that I'm here, _because I chose to be here, with you. And I am never leaving you alone, and we will do this together. _

Whatever horror and danger and agony we have to endure, promise me that we'll do it together.

_**Promise me, Sherlock.**_

.

.

**SH**:

John.

John. Stop it. You have no right to be ashamed at all, or to think that you're my weakness. You are my strength. You don't weigh me down or slow me down. You _root _me. You ground me. You remind me that I can actually have a _home_. And you remind me now that I have something worth fighting for, a home to defend and protect. I never had that before—not before I met you. And it's an honor, John.

Every day that you—wonderful, strong, brave, seemingly _ordinary _John Watson—are with me you remind me that I am here. That I am seen. That I am not alone, not invisible. You _see_ me, John. You put your finger right on my terrible, cruel, cold heart and you don't flinch away from the beat of the thing. You are _good_, so very good, a far better man than I could ever be, and if I lost you—if I lost my roots—I would be lost, John. I couldn't stand, I couldn't grow. Nothing.

I'm just the trunks and branches, John. The meretricious leaves. If I die, you can still grow back. And that's all that matters to me.

.

.

**JW**:

It's just my luck, then…that out of all the geniuses in the world, I have to end up with the one anomaly in the population who's being such an exasperating and heartbreaking _idiot._

How can anyone _not _see you, Sherlock? _How?_ You're _blinding_, you're _infuriating_,you command the attention of anyone who comes into contact with you, and they can never, _ever _forget you. You're not from this world, Sherlock—sometimes I think you're too good and too beautiful and too _fragile _for this world. And I don't want this world to ever break you, Sherlock. Not when…not when I _need _you.

Because it's not you who isn't seen, Sherlock. It's _me_.

I'm a shadow of who I used to be, Sherlock. I don't have much life left in me. I'm the broken pieces Afghanistan has left for you to pick up, a soldier trying to find a purpose, a doctor trying to find a life to save, an ordinary man trying to believe that there is still some good left in this world. And that's what I found in you, Sherlock. That's why I _need _you. Because you remind me that maybe, before I leave this world for good, I would've done something useful, I would've fought for a worthwhile purpose...I would have left behind a memory that will last longer than the life I have left to live.

And that's what I intend to do, Sherlock. I intend to make the world remember you, to _see _you as I have always seen you—an extraordinary man who has always possessed a great heart along with that great brain. Because you aren't merely a great man, Sherlock—you're a _good _one.

And if I protect you, Sherlock, if I keep you alive, _if I immortalize you..._I'll know that in this, at least, my ordinary, fleeting life has been worthwhile.

Don't...don't let me fail, Sherlock. Don't let me let you down. If I fail in this...if _I fail in this..._

I...might as well have never been alive.

So please...let me be with you. In any way, in _every_ way. Don't let me leave you. Don't let me be _useless_.

…_Why can't you promise me that? _

.

.

**SH**:

And, once again, John, you underestimate yourself. You have something I will never have. You know how to be…human. Yes, I know I have the nerves and blood vessels and all of that. But you know how to be _human_. You know how to be kind. To make people smile, and laugh. You set people at _ease_. You know how to heal. You wear it so unassumingly, like that awful jumper you have, but it's _there_.

Do you _truly_ think _you're_ invisible? I saw straight through to the center of you at Bart's. And you're not some shadow that has to hide or slink away somewhere. You're full of clues, John. Full of little delightful mysteries. You should know this by now—sometimes the things that seem to be the smallest are actually the most significant and the most important.

You talk about me being blinding, full of light. There's a difference between the light from an explosion and the light from a hearth, John. I am the former—I shock people, I disturb them, I rock them from their foundations and _wound_ them with my light. People _run_ from me, screaming.

You are the latter, John. People want to curl themselves around you and put their hands up to your warmth so that they can feel good again. You drive away the cold, John. You've driven away _my_ cold, and that frightens me because I don't know how to keep your fire going. I don't know how to tend to you properly.

I can't even stop saying your name over and over again. Just that one little syllable.

You have no idea of the power you hold over me.

Do you know why I argue with you about the way you write your blog? When you _romanticize_ our cases, instead of focusing on my logic and deductions? I don't recognize that man on the page. I can't see that man being me. I'm _not _a hero, John. I never was and I never will be.

And I can't promise that I'll always be with you, John. Because I will hurt you. I am dangerous; you know that. And I know that I said, "dangerous," and there you were, but this is different. I have hurt everyone else in my life. I have hurt them with my words and my cruelty and my running into danger and this bloody fucking _game_ and I can't promise you that I won't hurt you.

If you stay, if I _promise_, I am signing you up for the possibility of pain, of torture, of death. All because of _me. _Is that what you really want? Do you see why I don't want to care about you, or about anyone?

I would rather let you go, I would rather push you away, I would rather sacrifice all the future days we would have together if I knew that you would be alive, and safe. I can't let you die on my account. Because I'm not worth it. I'm really not.

.

.

**JW**:

Do you know why I always end up underestimating myself? Because you never believe _in_ me. You never _believe _me.

I know that you always have to be right. I know that you _believe _you're always right. But sometimes, Sherlock...sometimes I wish you'll listen. _To me_. Not because I'm right. But simply because I'm worth listening to.

I want to believe I'm strong enough, Sherlock. I want to believe I'm strong enough to be your partner, your _equal_. But I have a hard time believing that when you keep on pushing me away, as if I'm too weak to handle everything you'll throw my way—everything life will throw at _both _of us. As if I don't know what I'm doing, as if I'm naïve and gullible and I constantly wear rose-colored glasses. I've been through _war_,Sherlock. Those glasses have been shattered long before I realized I even had them.

I see you, Sherlock, and I _know _I see a good man. I've been through enough battles in Afghanistan and in my own life to _know_.And when I see you, I _know _I see a hero.

And yet...and yet you always _doubt _me. And _that's _what hurts the most. It seems like all I ever do when I'm with you, is to prove to you that _I'm not a liar_.

Because more than your regard, more than your friendship, what I wanted, _yearned _for the most...was your trust. Your _faith_. Your_ respect_. _Your belief in me._

Compared to you, I know I'm an idiot. Practically everyone is, as you've said. But I try, Sherlock. I try my _damn best _to keep up. And sometimes...sometimes I wish you'd just wait for me. That you'd look behind you, knowing that I'd be there, following you, _even when you'd leave me behind..._and that when our eyes would meet all I'd see is the recognition, the trust, the encouragement, the _faith _that you _know _I'd be there with you—_because I'm strong enough to endure everything with you._

You say you want to keep me alive. _Then let me stay with you. Let me be with you, throughout anything and everything._

Because for as long you keep on doubting me, on belittling my capability to keep up with a man like you, _on doubting the fact that I am strong enough for the both of us and that I will keep on living for you for as long as you are there, and that I will not die, I will not let myself be killed, not when I have you to live for..._

As long as you keep doubting me, Sherlock...you're the one who's killing me.

Because it kills me that while you'll always be the hero in my story...I am never the hero in yours.

_I am never the one you trust to be strong enough to save both of us._

.

.

**SH**:

John.

I've disappointed you.

You don't know that you won't be killed. You can't promise me that. You're an army doctor. You've seen enough times when people are dying despite their best intentions and all of their promises. So don't even try to promise me that.

Do you think I want to see you broken again, John? The way you were when I first met you, limping and rigid and closed up tight? Do you think I want to do that to you, to know that if you get close to me, if I die, that you might go back to that state?

When you ran with me after the cabbie, when you leapt over the cars and the rooftops after me, it was_ glorious_. It was the best experiment I had ever done; proving the point that you could still be whole again.

And I have never_ doubted_ you, John. I have belittled you and angered you and frustrated you and driven you up the walls, but I have _never_ doubted you, John. When you shot the cabbie for me—it wasn't even 48 hours of knowing you—I never doubted that you would be by my side. You have stuck by me through every bloody experiment and kidnapping and chase and head in the fridge and every time you come back I wonder: _Why? Why is he still here? _Not even Mycroft has tolerated me the way that you have.

I doubt _myself_, John. I doubt myself because I need you too much. I needed a flatmate and an assistant and a colleague and a doctor, but I didn't know I needed a _friend_. You're the first friend I've ever had, John. The _only _friend. And, no, the skull doesn't count.

Do you know how frustrating that is, to need someone and not even comprehend fully the reason why? I don't know how this is supposed to work. There's no algorithm for it; and it's clumsy and messy and I don't know what to do with it.

I have _never _needed anything this much. Not even cocaine and Lestrade's crime scenes. I don't _know_ what to do with this feeling, John. I stuff it down and I shove it away because I don't want you to see. I don't have the language to tell you what I feel. At the pool, I tried to tell you. That what you did was good. You saw how clumsy I was with my words. And I'm never clumsy with them. Only with you.

You make me see things, John. You almost make me want to believe in this good person you see in me.

What makes you think you haven't saved me already?

.

.

**JW**:

You don't realize it, do you, Sherlock? You severely underestimate the passion and determination you inspire in people.

Why do you think Lestrade lets you undermine his authority? Why do you think Mycroft worries about you constantly? Why do you think they never gave up on you, in the same way that I never _will_? Why do you think, despite his unabashed admiration of you, Moriarty is still so_ threatened_ by you?

Because your heart is powerful, Sherlock. Even Moriarty realized it, even though you never _did_. Because your heart can ignite and light up the whole of London without even trying. You give light, you give life. You give _me _life, Sherlock. And that's why for as long as you live, I do too.

Because now...I _mean _something. I'm _worth _something. I'm _useful _again. And that's why I fight to stay alive, Sherlock. That's why _I_ _won't let myself die_. Because as powerful as killing for you and dying for you might be, I choose to _live _for you.

You said it yourself, Sherlock. I'll be broken if you die. Can you promise me, then? Can you promise me...that you won't die? At least, not yet. Not when the world still needs you. Not when _I _still need you.

I know what you're going to say next: "John...you're a doctor. You, of all people, should intimately know by now the inevitability of human frailty. That life is so vulnerable, so fleeting, so easily lost."

And you're right, again, like you always are. I'm a doctor. I'm also a soldier. And in being both...I also know most intimately the power of human resilience. And that nothing, absolutely _nothing _is more powerful than _the_ _will to live_.

Why do you think that, even after being shot, even after being ravaged by fever, even after _nearly dying..._why do you think I still lived? Because I couldn't let myself die, Sherlock. I couldn't _possibly _die. Not when I still hadn't lived _enough. _Not when I had yet to prove to myself that there was truly something worth fighting for.

I'm not a brilliant man like you. I'm not even a good man, the way you keep insisting I am. Unlike you, Sherlock, I have actually _killed_ people. On the battlefield, on the operating table, in my arms...some of them I have killed simply because I knew I couldn't save them. I was _that _useless. I'm not good, even though I _try _to be. And even though I often fail, I keep on trying. Now, more than ever. Because I finally found my answer.

I found _you._

And that is why I will never stop trying to return the favor, to be who you have been to me. _I will keep trying to be your reason to live_. Your reason to stop being careless, to stop deliberately putting yourself in harm's way, to keep trying to live a little longer.

Live for me, Sherlock. Live for me, as I will always live for you. Don't ever think that your life is something you have to sacrifice, not when your life is too precious to be thrown away. Not because you're brilliant and one of a kind, not because you're the only consulting detective in this world, although it's partly that. Not because the criminal classes will run rampant and London will be boring without you, although it's partly that as well. But most of all, don't _ever _throw your life away because you matter to the people who care for you. And you matter to _me_.

Let me save you, as you have saved me.

Let me stay by your side. And don't go where I can't follow you. Because I haven't saved you yet, Sherlock. Because you still haven't let me.

And when I will have finally convinced you of the truth of my words, of everything I'm telling you right now...that's when I'll know I have saved you. That's when I'll truly, finally, become the hero in your story.

_Because I will have made you believe._

Let me prove to you that heroes exist.

And that heroes, like you, are worth living for.

.

.

.

**SH**:

1. Lestrade lets me undermine his authority because he needs me. He needs my brain. He needs my expertise. He needs to be able to see what I see. He needs my deductions and my intelligence. I'm sure that if he were able to obtain the same information from a robot, he would do so.

2. Mycroft is my brother, and, because of some sense of _familial_ duty, he sees fit to annoy me with his concern. He likes to meddle too much, even though he'll never let on.

3. And Moriarty. I threaten him because I am the only thing standing between him and ruin. I threaten him because he finally has a sufficient competitor for his little puzzles. You saw us at the pool. Practically—what is that expression—_mind-fucking_?

My _mind_ is the thing that is powerful, John. My mind is the thing that drives me. At least it was until I met you. Before I met you, I couldn't care less if you cut off my limbs and body and left me with nothing but this organ stuck in my head. But you showed up at Bart's, and you crawled underneath my skin, and started up this organ I thought I never needed.

I don't _want_ to need you, John. I don't _want _to need anyone. I've never been able to rely on anyone before. No one has even wanted to come close to me. Not even Mycroft. You know what people have said about me. PSYCHOPATH. FREAK. JUNKIE. CONTAMINATED. MONSTER. No one has ever been kind to me before, John. _No one._ Tolerant, yes. Pitying, yes. But never kind.

And here you came along, told me that I was _brilliant_ and _fantastic _and _extraordinary_, and it rocked me off my fucking foundation, and I am terrified that your friendship is a mirage, John. And no, I don't doubt your sincerity—I can tell by your voice and breathing patterns. I am terrified that this—all of this—will slip away under my fingers.

You think _you_ had no choice but to follow me, to chase after me? I had no choice but to follow you. I'm always trying to follow in your footsteps, to go where you go, to know what's Good and what's A Bit Not Good and how to navigate this world. You're my compass, John. You're my guide. You're my instruction manual for living.

And it doesn't matter that you've killed people, John. You've seen enough in your own life before and after me to know that death and killing are never black-and-white. You've lived in the grey enough to know that.

But you're wrong again, John. You are the _best_ man. You are the best man I have ever known. And not just because you tolerate everything I do. But because you are _brave_. You are braver than I could ever be. You walked out every day into that fucking beige world you were in, you walk out into danger with me, and you don't flinch. You walk into life, and you don't run away. You didn't run away from me. Even though everyone told you to. I hid myself for years. I hid in my mind, I hid in cocaine, I hide even now, in my cases and my arrogance.

You make me want to be brave for you. You make me want to be a better man. You are my example, John. And I am afraid I will fail, and drive you away, and disappoint you.

I would never throw my life away, John. It would be a gift. It would be a gift to you. If I could keep you here. I would willingly lay down everything I hold dear in this life to keep you here, to make you happy.

Why is my heart opening? And why does it hurt, John?

.

.

**JW:**

1. And yet he doesn't. I don't think he'd be empathizing with a robot's attempts to be clean from drugs, nor do I think he'd go out of his way to cover up and/or fix the robot's mistakes, particularly those in which he'd have to break the law for. I don't think he'd be swallowing his pride each time he had to defer to the robot's superiority, nor do I think he'd be ordering his subordinates to actually respect this callous robot. Come to think of it, he didn't really need to do all those things with you, did he?

2. And yet he does. He lets on because I don't think he can hide it adequately enough, because, well...he can't hide how sincere the meanings of his "meddling" are. And you know, he actually has more of a reason to kill you _because _you're family. And yet he doesn't.

3. ...I want you to know that the word you used and the way you said it conjured up strange images in my mind, as you seemed to have meant it..._literally. _No, I will not describe those thoughts. Not even if you blackmail me.

Well then. If you think I really am the best man you've ever known, and that you have no choice but to follow me...then why are you still arguing with me? You've said so yourself, and to Lestrade, no less. "_Only a fool argues with his doctor_." And you're not a fool, are you, Sherlock?

(And I _am _your doctor, aren't I?)

Think about everything you've just said to me, Sherlock. I know your hard drive has recorded and saved it. And as you're processing, I'll wait until you arrive at the same acceptable and irrefutable conclusion:

**You already need me**.

Your words—and the way you're fighting them—show nothing less. Regardless of whether or not you wanted to, regardless of whether this is a fortunate or unfortunate turn of events, it remains factually accurate that you _need me._

And you don't have to sound so put out about it, you know. It's not like the scale is unbalanced. I think I've already established what you mean in my life. Christ in heaven, Sherlock, I already told you that you're my reason to live—is there anything more of myself that I can give you that you don't already have?

You say I am the best man you've ever known...and yet I choose to defer to you. What does it say about you, then? What does it mean when the best man you know chooses _you_?

(And if you tell me it's because I'm an idiot I will throw all your own words back at you. You did not just convince me so thoroughly of being "the best man you know" only to tell me I'm an _idiot _for choosing _you. _What does it make _you _if you find your own arguments fallible?)

You need me, the best man you know, and I choose you. I will _always _choose you.

And so I ask you now, Sherlock Holmes. _What will you do now?_

Your heart hurts because you're human. And you're learning to love.

And don't worry about your heart opening. I promise...it will be safe in my hands.

_I promise._

.

.

**SH:**

Once again, you're in _sparkling _form, showing off your…deductive skills. It's a bit unnerving to be on the other side of the magnifier, so to speak.

This is what I mean, John, when I said that you _see_ me. You see straight through me to my very bones, to all the places I try to hide, the places I didn't even know I had. You open me up and pick me apart. No one has ever been able to do that to me before. Not in the way you do.

Mycroft gets to my nerves, and Moriarty gets to my brain, but you—you're in my blood, John. You're all the little platelets and plasma, and how am I supposed to remove that?

You're my mirror, John. And I never liked looking in mirrors much. I never liked what I saw. A socially awkward junkie with a cruel mouth and a brain that would never shut off even if his life depended on it.

And as for intelligence—intelligence and common sense do not necessarily go hand-in-hand, John. You're the one choosing the self-proclaimed sociopath. What does that say about _you_?

Human _frailty_. I used to think it was so…boring. So dull. Everyone so terribly, horribly vacant, John. Minds full of rubbish. Not paying attention to what really mattered. Ordinary. Ordinary life kills me, John.

You prove to me that it doesn't have to be. Extra-ordinary John.

I've seen so much, John. So many lives ruined because of this thing, this _love_ you speak of. Wives killing husbands for _love_, boyfriends cheating on boyfriends because they didn't _love_ the other person.

God, John, my own family. You have no idea of the coldness there. You think Mycroft is stuffy and rigid and horrid? You should have seen my father. He would have shown you the meaning of ice.

Is that what you're asking of me? To trust you? To love you?

I don't know how to love you, John. I don't know how to love anyone. And if I do love, it will turn to ruin. I can't ruin you. I would never want to ruin you.

How…

I…

Help me, John. Help me understand.

.

.

.

**JW:**

Hah. Touché, Sherlock. You're the one to talk about common sense and logic. You're asking me what it says about me? Maybe you should ask me what it says about you. Maybe you're not the sociopath you proclaim yourself to be. Oh, you can give me all the data you want, but that's already outdated data. Obsolete. Irrelevant. You have new data to study. Because I'm here now. And I'm here to stay.

If you need more data on that, you have the rest of your life to study me.

That is, if you...well...if you let me be around that long. If you want me to. If not, then...I'll still be here, for as long as you need me here. For as long as you want me here. If that won't be a very long time then...there's no time to start like the present, yes?

We might not have very long.

Unless of course...we can do something about it. Make this...what we have...last longer. Together.

This is all I want from you, you know. Nothing more, nothing less. I'm not asking you to love me. I never have, and I never will, because I'm not the type of person who wishes for something so out of my league, something I don't deserve. Which is why I consider myself a lucky, _lucky_ bastard because I'm not even asking for it, and you already _love _me.

Yes, Sherlock, don't give me that look. You _do _know how to love. You've always known how. You just refuse to recognize it for what it is. I've never doubted you in that aspect. In fact, I don't think you're the way you are because you don't feel anything. On the contrary...you feel too _much_.

I'm not asking you to love me, because you already do. I just want to love _you_.

And you won't let me.

_Why_, Sherlock? Why won't you let me in your life completely? Why won't you let me know you, let me _love_ you? It's as if you—

…Oh.

_OH._

You're afraid of me, Sherlock. You're afraid that I'll hurt you, that I'll leave you. That I'll betray you, somehow, like your experiences with humanity have taught you. Christ. I. That's. I'm telling you now, Sherlock, that's..._impossible. _To hurt you, leave you, betray you in any way, shape, or form is tantamount to ripping my heart out. And I'm not suicidal, Sherlock. I intend to live, thank you very much. I _want _to live, because you're here, in this world, and I'm not going anywhere you're not there.

And give me a little more credit, Sherlock. After all, I survived Afghanistan, Moriarty, my sister, and your brother. Hell, I've already survived your experiments and your moods and your ridiculous capacity to get into trouble like a danger magnet. You won't hurt me, Sherlock. You won't _ruin _me. Trust in me a little more. And more importantly...trust _yourself_ a little more. God knows I do. Wholeheartedly. Completely. Irrevocably.

I'm the blood in your veins, aren't I? Christ almighty, that's supposed to scare me, isn't it? Or at least disgust me a bit. Don't think I don't know that it's the precise reason why you chose that metaphor, but...God help me, I'm..._flattered_. Honored, even. I would _love _that, you know. Do you understand what I'm saying, Sherlock? I would _love _to be the blood in your veins. To be the one to keep that singular and precious heart of yours beating, pulsing..._alive_.

Oh, God, you look terrified. Is it too much? Too much, too fast, all at once? I'm sorry, look I...it's okay. I'm not asking you for anything you don't want to give, anything you're not ready for. Just...let me stay, yeah? I won't ask for anything more, I promise. Just...let me stay with you.

...I _am _being very presumptuous, aren't I? Here I am going on and on about wanting to be with you, to save you, to be your hero...and I haven't even considered that it might not be what _you _want. I'm sorry, I...God. I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I don't mean to be a selfish prick.

Tell me, then, Sherlock. What do _you _want from me? Whatever it is, even if… even if it rips my heart out, I'll do it. For you.

I was never any good at disobeying you.

What do you want, Sherlock? Tell me.

.

.

**SH:**

John. Don't even think for a moment that I don't want you. That I haven't wanted you in my life from the very start, from the moment I laid eyes on you.

Do you really think I couldn't afford a flat on my own? My coat alone costs more than you make in a month at the surgery. Do you really think that my phone had no signal? Do you think for one moment that I wasn't completely intrigued with and entranced by you?

Don't you even_ think_ about leaving me, John. Don't even think that you could. Because if you're in my blood, then you are already a part of me, and that's still not enough for me.

You _truly _want to know what I want? I want you so completely inside of me that I don't know where you begin and I end. And, no, John, this isn't another one of those _metaphors_ I used earlier. I want you to be part of me. I want your breath to be my breath. I want your heartbeats to come from my heart. I want your thoughts to come from my mouth. I want to taste the food you eat on my tongue.

I want to know everything you know. I want to crawl inside your brain and study every nook and cranny of your mind and know every neuron. I want to understand why the hell you enjoy those James Bond films, and why you love your sister after everything she's put you through, and why you still insist on wearing those ridiculous jumpers.

I want to know what color your eyes are in the morning, and the evening, and the night. I want you to be here when I wake up, and I want to make you horrible cups of tea, and I want to know your heart rate when you're sleeping and when you're running and when you're laughing and when you're terrified.

I want to grow up with you in your mind, I want to be part of every memory you've ever had, and I want every memory you ever will have to be of me, of us, together. I want to pull the nightmares out of your head and burn them into nothing but ashes.

I want to burn alive anyone who would ever touch you, who would even think of laying a hand on you, because we're inseparable, John. If anyone touches you at all, they are wounding me. And when you bleed, I bleed too.

I want to watch every wrinkle form in your skin as we get old and catalogue them all. I want to know exactly how many grey hairs you have on your head, and when they come in. And I want to know the sound you make when you take your last breath so that I know how I will sound when I die the next minute. I want to make you immortal, John. I want to put you in suspended animation so that every single golden piece of you stays perfect and good and flawless forever.

I want to keep you, John. I want to go where you go, and eat what you eat and dream what you dream and I never want to be alone ever again.

Do you _see_, John? Do you see why I am scared of this? Scared for you to come close to me? I am afraid of _myself_, John. I am _ravenous_. I am hungry for more, hungry for more cases, more data, more stimulation and knowledge, and it's _never_ enough. _It's never enough_. Even in my want for you, it's never enough. I will drink you dry and eat every piece of you down and I will still want more. And then, then when you are utterly empty, that's when you will want to leave. I'm a monster even when I love.

I _use_ people, John. I use Molly to get what I want at the morgue, I use the homeless network to get the information I need, I use everyone. I don't want to use you.

I'm afraid I will kill you with my love.

I want you to stay. More than anything I have ever wanted in my life. But if I kill you with my love, I don't know what I would do.

You're _not_ frightened of me? You _want_ to be with _me_?

…

Oh.

Stupid, _stupid_.

You're afraid of the same thing I am, aren't you? You're afraid you need me so much that you won't know how to live afterwards if I die.

You love me so much it scares you, too.

.

.

**JW:**

I'm not sure whether or not I should be laughing right now, Sherlock. Though _of course_ I should've expected that even when you're declaring your affections, somewhere along the way you'll still find a way to _insult _me. Why doesn't that surprise me? And more importantly—why am I amused instead of annoyed? When did the earth beneath my feet tilt halfway around the world of _crazy _and still manage to let me stand upright on one good leg and one psychosomatically limping one? Oh, of course, it's because of _you_.God in heaven, Sherlock, you're _infuriating, _you're _exasperating_, and _how in the world did I end up with a __**miracle**__ like you?_

Did you actually _hear _the part where I said that you won't ruin me, and that you should trust yourself a little more? Did you actually _hear _me when I said that you're _beautiful _and _brilliant _and _amazing_, and that the words do not in any way describe a _monster_? You infuriating mad genius you, do you _really _choose the data you want to save in that hard drive of yours, with the exclusion of all others? _What kind of ridiculously biased study is that, Mr. Consulting Detective?_ I think it's time _I _tinker with your ridiculously outmoded hard drive of a mind and edit some of the erroneous data stored there, like the fact that you think you destroy everything you come into contact with when the truth is that _everything you touch comes to life_.

Do you know you have that ability, Sherlock? Beyond your brilliant twin powers of observation and deduction, do you realize that you have this amazing ability to save people _who are already dead?_ I'm a doctor and a soldier, and I stop being _useful _once a life is taken away from my hands. But _you_, Sherlock...do you realize that you give voice to these people who are supposedly silenced forever? They talk to you in a language that only you can hear and understand, and you effectively translate their story in a way that only _you _can ever tell.

That night when I followed you to Lauriston Gardens, I saw how Jennifer Wilson spoke to you. Even without a breath of life left in her, somehow you _heard _her, and you made sure that _we all listened to her, to save her, to save countless other lives _that Jefferson Hope might have taken away—the lives that _Moriarty _might have used for his own cruel, sadistic game. I saw that incredible power that first night with you, and _that's _when I knew I was in the presence of an honest-to-god _**hero**_.

You really are the only one in the world, Sherlock Holmes. You walk on the boundary between the afterlife and this world and _still _remain untouched, refusing to be bound by either this life or the next. You're the closest thing that this world will ever have to a real superhero, a supernatural savior, and I can only be your humble Boswell, trying to show the world the good man behind that mask of sociopathy you've become so used to wearing that you begin to believeyou _are_ that mask. And I will gladly spend the rest of my life gently tearing that mask you glued to your skin, because the world needs to see how beautiful you are.

And if the reason why you've chosen to wear that mask is because you believe that it's the only protection you have against this cold, cruel world that your father introduced you to, _then I will take its place_. I will be what that mask had been for you. I will stand between you and the rest of the world, because you can't be destroyed, Sherlock Holmes, _and I will make sure of that._

Use me as you want, Sherlock. _Use me as you want, because God knows I've been using you for entirely selfish reasons, taking so much from you what you should have been giving to the world. _I've been using you to feel _alive, _Sherlock. To remind myself to _be _alive, to remember all the reasons why life is worth _living. _I can't even _begin _to describe to you how it feels, because it's so, _so_ thrilling and heartrending and _divine_, and if I can give back even just a fraction of what you have given me, if I can make you _feel _even just the tiniest idea of this overwhelming, all-consuming _passion_ I feel for you, then...by all means, Sherlock Holmes, _use me as you want_.

And I'm telling you right now, there really isn't much of me left for you to discover that you don't already know. You know things about me that _I _didn't know about myself, before. And I'm terrified, Sherlock, that one day you'll realize I have nothing _new _to offer anymore and you'll eventually get tired of me and you'll pronounce me as _boring _and—and I don't think I can watch you move on, Sherlock, the way you do with your cases and your experiments. To have that brilliant mind of yours focused entirely on me, that's...that's almost too good to be true, isn't it?

I mean, I know I'm your...interest...obsession..._case study _at the moment but...but I'm in it for the long haul, Sherlock, I want you to know that. And every day I wake up with that tiny, persistent ache in my chest, wondering if this will be the day that you'll stop looking at me like _I'm _a miracle, the day that you have finally met someone who complements you and matches you _perfectly—_someone like Mycroft, or Moriarty, or even Irene—and I will have to politely relinquish the place I have by your side to someone who actually _deserves _you. I already have enough comments on my blog telling me that I'm too slow and dim-witted to be your flatmate; I really don't want to see the living, breathing _proof _before my eyes someday.

But if I can have this, if I can have _you_, even for just a little while, then I'll take it. I'll _take care _of it. For as long as I can. For as long as I am gifted with this chance to be with you..._I'll take care of it, of you, of us, for as long as I can._

There's no going back, Sherlock. _There's no going back. _If you let me in, _completely, _then we're in this together.

.

.

**SH:**

John.

My dear John.

You never cease to amaze me with your outright passion and your moments of stupidity.

I will _never_ be tired of you. I will _never_ be bored with you, or disappointed with you, or want to replace you with anyone else. I will never throw you away. Didn't I tell you that you were full of little mysteries? You're an ex-army doctor who loves rugby and crap telly and wears horrid jumpers and has nerves of steel and can kill a man for me the first night you met me and stitch me up with those same hands the next day. How can I _possibly_ not find you interesting, or run out of things to know and notice and love about you?

I can spend hours counting your different facial tics alone. Did you know you have an unnatural obsession with licking your lips?

You amaze me _every day_, John. You make every day new. You see things I don't. That I can't. You make me see that life can be good. Every time we're at a crime scene, I need your eyes, too. I need your outside perspective. I need you to see the little details about humanity that I can't. When we're running through the streets together, all these streets I know like the back of my hand, it's like I'm seeing them fresh all over again—because I'm with _you._

You tell me that I speak the language of the dead. It's easy to listen to the dead, John. They are so naked, so unassuming, so yearning to be heard. They offer up all of their secrets to me and don't ask for more.

I want...I want to be naked like that with you. I want you to hear and see and know every piece of me. I don't want to hide anymore. I don't want to hide from you, John. It scares me down to the bottom of my bones to let you in, but I don't want to hide from you anymore.

I want to listen to you forever. I want to listen to every bit of you breathing. I want to hear everything you have to say for the rest of your life, until we're two old men tottering around the countryside after petty thieves.

There will _never_ be another person like you in my life. And I don't just mean that you are uniquely John Watson, that there will never be another person with your same DNA or fingerprints or blood type or teeth imprints. No one can _ever_ fill the space in my life that you do. _No one._ Not my brother, not Moriarty, not Irene or Lestrade.

_There is no one else for me but you_.

(Didn't I tell you I'd be lost without my blogger?)

And you couldn't be selfish if you tried, John. You are generous to a fault—you're kind to your patients, to strangers, even to Anderson—and you are infinitely more generous with me than I could possibly deserve.

You are also, John, like some sort of terrible, stubborn badger that won't stop hounding me until it gets what it wants—you are possibly more stubborn than me.

It seems that I could never be rid of you, even if I tried to be, even if I ever wanted to be (which I don't). You'd follow me around the world and back, nagging me about taking better care of myself.

If I can be your source of living...if my presence can keep you alive and good and kind and warm and safe and_ you_...then I will do it. For you. I will be yours for the rest of my life. And I promise you I will do my very best to not die.

God, is this what love does? Does it break one's brain? Because I think you just did, John. At least you've certainly done a good job of messing about with my wiring. My hard-drive isn't formatted properly for it. At least, not yet...

…

Dinner?

.

.

_**FIN.**_


End file.
